


Our World After

by rtrvls



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demigods, Lovecraftian, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Reincarnation, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rtrvls/pseuds/rtrvls
Summary: Caught in a cycle of war and reincarnation, Camille and the other Godshards have weary souls. Yet as Camille comes to after another battle still, she's met with a frightening sky - always dark, the moon in eternal eclipse. She's told the sky stays dark because one of their number is missing; they then traverse the country to look for the missing Godshard and a way to end their war once and for all.A story of memories and trauma, cosmic horror and found family finding one another time and time again.Cross-posted on Royal Road and itch.io.





	1. No Hands To Hold

Camille’s awakening comes like a sudden snap; it’s more like she’s inexplicably lost time rather than the slow and gradual awakening from a proper sleep. Not only is she awake — or now just suddenly aware — she is also standing, feet planted squarely in the space she finds herself in. 

And as she takes that space in, a quiet forest at night, she finds immediately that it’s incredibly still. The sounds one might expect from a forest, all that white noise and proof of life melting into a barely detectable background, are all atrociously absent. She can notice her breathing. She can hear her heartbeat. And yet if a pin were to drop from stretching branch to unturned stone, she would certainly hear that too.

That quiescence brings with it a feeling that graces up her spine, settles around her shoulders and nape. A cold and prickly mantle, this sensation feels familiar and that recognition puts an anxious sort of twist into her guts.

It’s dread, potent and with a freeze-cinder sort of gravity pulling down her insides. 

She moves. Her boots bring her from the great tree that hides the sky to the twisted and gnarled and mossy earth of a clearing.

Eyes turning skyward, that dread twists worse, twists hard, feels more like a knife now than a pull.

The sky is flat grey, stark white clouds floating still against the slate backdrop. It looks almost cartoonish, how there’s no stars to shine or a wisping away of the clouds. Yet the sight that disturbs the most is the ring of the moon, akin to an eclipse. The ring is thin and unbroken, light dripping from it like a viscous oil to dissipate into the sky. It twinkles and flows out, crystalline.

It’s wrong. 

Pretty, but wrong, and there’s a sort of horror that accompanies the sight. Yet for a couple moments all she can do is stare, mind blank of thought, rather filled with the singular feeling of utter wrongness. 

She doesn’t want to stay under that shine; when will the sun come? 

The hour is unfelt, unknown. There’s nothing on her person that might tell her, either. 

Though she wants to run, her legs move slowly and surely through the clearing to the other side. As she steps through, the dread and horror make way for something a little calmer. It’s akin to how she felt when she needed to soldier on — shut down, her therapist called it. While that shutting down wasn’t ideal from a therapy point of view, she felt it was in order to provide for her siblings.

At the thought of her siblings, a pang of saudade fills her middle like fireworks, bright and hot and so, so loud. The image of their three faces rushes back, the sound of their laughter.

With that painful pang comes the need to move, to find them. She soldiers on as she had before time and time again, thinking only of them.

She wonders what her old therapist would say about this.

Reaching the edge of the forest, she’s stepped into a residential area; it’s a cul-de-sac with those big houses that probably all have the same exact layout as one another. She’s never been especially fond of the suburbs.

There’s a sign of life here besides her own — dim lights from a house at the mouth of the cul-de-sac.

What sort of people does this place have in it, so still and unnerving? Would they welcome her or reject her, or even hurt her? These questions all clatter-crash into one another like a car wreck, but she’s moving anyway.

Slow and surely she goes, like an experienced pallbearer. 

Before she can reach the house, more life teems forth from it; a person in dark clothing runs from the side to the front, aiming a shotgun right at her. Camille sticks her hands up immediately, heart suddenly pounding loud enough she’s sure the other person can hear it.

“Don’t shoot, I don’t know where I am, or—”

They lower the shotgun, voice low and scratchy, “Oh, hell. Camille?”

She balks for a second, hands lowering themselves, “How do you know my name?”

Righting their posture to full mast, they offer a small smile, that seems just a little regretful, somehow, “We’ve been waiting for you. Come with me.”

Skeptical though she feels at the invitation, she takes a step towards this person. That sad sort of regret in their smile belies a sort of humanity that seems hard to fake. They’re pierced up and covered in tattoos, made visible from under the black tank top they’re wearing; that might’ve made them intimidating to Camille before, but the shape of her name in their mouth makes the trepidation ease. Familiar and warm.

She feels the ice in her heart melt away.

“What can I call you?” she asks, “And what is this place?”

Before they answer, she blurts out, “And why is the moon like that?”

“Whoa, whoa. Those questions are above my paygrade.” they say, walking in step with her to the side of the house. “Caleb’s inside, he’ll … fill you in.”

Then their grin brightens, “But you can call me Laika.”

Laika. The name seems familiar, and it’s a feeling she can’t shake while they make their way to the backyard. There’s a basement door they reach; Laika reaches down to wrench them open, heavy and creaky.

Laika takes a few steps down the stairs, and turns to see Camille paused there. They laugh a little, and the sound is warm and familiar, too.

“I know it looks sketchy, but I promise it’s okay. We’re on your side.”

“All right.” she murmurs, and begins to follow them the rest of the way down. She can’t do anything but trust them; where else she can go when she doesn’t even know where she is? She doesn’t know what that moon ring means, and nor does she know what’s out there.

A shiver runs up her spine and down her limbs.

When they reach the basement, she finds it a lot more roomy than expected. A few people are sitting around in the room, mugs clasped in hands or guns being taken apart and polished. That makes her nervous.

“Yo, you found her?” a boy exclaims, incredulous, jumping up from his seat. Everyone looks up from what they’re doing to look at Camille. Just a little sheepish, she raises her hand in greeting.

“Almost gunned her down, but she’s here. Where’s Caleb and the others?”

“Out.” says the boy, “Except Hye. She’s in the other room.”

She’s confused; the lack of immediate answers both frustrates and worries her.

“Time to meet Veils, I guess. C’mon.” Laika heads towards the left, where there’s a curtain separating this room from the next. They part the curtain and step inside.

The furniture in the next room is mismatched and looks old, but the girl sitting on the couch, book in hand, looks even more out of place. Like she’s been plucked from a fashion magazine and placed into a dingy hideout.

She’s dressed in soft colors, flowy clothes. Her blonde hair piles on top of her head in a soft, wavy knot, though it looks loose and threatening to break free at any moment.

Something thrums between them, taut like a tightrope. But when their gazes meet, Camille feels sharp pain lance up through her ribs. With that comes a warm sort of fondness and familiarity, as though someone is stabbing her and hushing her through it all at once, words kind and reassuring.

“Camille?”

Hyacinth. Her name is Hyacinth, and Camille knew her once, knew her intimately for years and lifetimes. Those pale purple eyes of hers soften Camille’s worries, but the pain stays sharp. There’s that knife in her ribs, then the heavy feeling of blunt force at her temple; the ragged claws raking down her thighs, bruises all over.

She goes unseeing, then; at least, she loses sight of the room around her, of Hyacinth. Instead, she melts backwards, through time and distance and she sees Hyacinth there. 

Camille’s head, laid in her lap, Hyacinth’s hand gracing her cheek. The pain of a fight, the hiss of it over a split lip. Hyacinth speaks in this half-dream, but she can’t hear what she’s saying, as though the words are being spoken from underwater. Camille laughs at the statement, but that hurts to do. Yet she finds she doesn’t mind, sitting with her like this.

All she feels is weary and warm and incredibly fond of this woman she seems to know so intimately, but has never met.

Then the melting sensation comes through again, fading her into something far more painful. Hyacinth, with a claw in her heart; Camille, screaming and rushing towards her. The claws are pulled free and the assailant — shadowy and incomprehensible — disappears. She can’t hear what Hyacinth breathes out, death rattling and coughing as she speaks. All Camille feels is anger and pure hatred to an aching intensity that shocks her waking self.

She comes out of those visions gasping, tears hot on her cheeks.

She’s laying on that couch now, and who knows how much time she had lost there? Hyacinth is sitting beside her, chair pulled up close. There’s more people in the room now, but she only just barely registers them before she’s sitting up and putting her hands over her face.

“Oh, Camille.” Hyacinth sighs, “You’re okay now. We got you.”

It’s silent for a couple beats while she breathes deeply. The pain is no more, but all her questions are back again; this time, accompanied by frustration.

“Can someone tell me,” she removes her hands from her face, wiping at the tears, “what the fuck is going on here?”

It’s silent again. She looks from Hyacinth to the others, finding there’s the same feeling of familiarity for all of them. It’s as though they’re just visiting a friend in the hospital.

“Caleb, you’re up.” says a man leaning back against a wall. His tone is slightly sardonic, and the color his words take tells her his name. 

Namir. 

She knew him, too.

Caleb speaks, “First — Camille, what do you remember?”

She sniffs, thinks.

“My name. My siblings and H-Hyacinth. How much it hurt.”

“How much what hurt?” he asks gently. The question makes her ache in and of itself.

“I don’t know.” she cries, then, tears coming again in wide tracks, “I don’t know anything and I need to know! I need to know where my siblings are, I need to know why the moon is like that.”

He inhales deeply then, clasps his hands together. He looks like the leader-type, and he’s familiar too, but the calm and nearly lazy way he moves, speaks, is even more frustrating. It’s as though he can’t comprehend or care about her pain — or maybe he’s numb to it. He seems as weary as he is authoritative.

“I don’t know where your siblings are.” he goes, matter-of-fact, “They’re more than likely in stasis.”

“Stasis?” she whispers, “What are you talking about?”

“The world is paralyzed right now. That moon you saw is a mark of that which shouldn’t be here any longer, but hangs on anyway.”

He comes closer, “It’s all a lot to hear, but it’s all true. You’re a Godshard like everyone here besides me.”

Before Camille can interrupt with more questions, he holds a hand up to hush her. She balks, but anger at the gesticulation spikes up into her heart.

“A demigod of sorts — you’re born of grief. You’re here to clear the world of the Ink that’s taken over the world entirely.

“The Ink is … inexplicable. All they want to do is hurt and hunt, especially you Shards. Most of the life on earth is in stasis and we haven’t figured out how to free them.”

Camille shakes her head, as if to dislodge the further questions that arise at the spiel. She whispers instead, “What kind of fucked up TV show did I just walk into?”

Namir snorts.

“I’m confused … the woman I saw in my dream felt like Hyacinth but she … wasn’t, at the same time.”

Hyacinth nods, “That’s probably a previous incarnation of mine. I’m … I’m Veils.”

“We’ve been doing this for a while.” says someone, seated on another couch to her left; this someone looks positively striking — skinny and pale, with a shock of green hair on their head. Gideon, representing Rage. 

They continue, “Lifetimes.”

“We’ve been reincarnated.” she goes, more of a statement than a question. This registers in her as true, like something clicked into place.

“Yeah. A lot.” Gideon sighs, “But we always come together to fight the Ink, or so the story goes.”

“Do you all remember this yourselves?”

“Not quite. We remember bits and pieces, but that’s where Scribes like Caleb and Laika come in. They remember the gaps we can’t fill.” the voice comes from a man sitting next to Gideon — Zephyr. Gideon’s brother. Diligence. 

“This is … a lot.” Camille murmurs, face once again obscured by her hands. She breathes deeply once, twice, and feels the emotion drain right out of her. Shut down proper, feeling a little more able to speak now, Camille keeps on with her questions.

“If we fought the Ink and are still alive, why does the sky still look like that?” she asks.

“We don’t really … Know.” Zephyr goes, “But one of us is missing. They’re of Compassion. It probably has to do with them, but no one remembers anything about them besides that — not even Caleb or Laika.”

Demyan. His name is Demyan.

With the remembrance of his name, Camille feels as though she’s going to throw up. Tears stream down her cheeks once more, and still the pain pulls her down under. She’s wounded, drowning, with the memory of him. His autumn-colored hair, the shape of his laughter. His tears over the state of the world when they were embroiled in war. How sensitive he could be, how much she absolutely loved and pitied him.

“Camille … ?” Hyacinth murmurs, “What happened?”

“His name is Demyan.” her breathing comes rough and quick and ragged and the vision of him crying over their battles makes it feel as though her insides have been taken out of her. Harsh and cold winds curl around her hollowed-out insides, knives on her nerves. “He’s — he’s … I-I don’t think he’s o-okay, he could n-never hack it with us wh-when we were together.”

“What do you mean?” another asks, softly; his name is Mikael, but this name only barely comes to her, anguish and fear making her shake.

“He wasn’t … wasn’t strong enough. S-soft.” she chokes on a sob, willing herself to breathe deep, “Oh, God, he’s d-dead isn’t he,”

“We won’t know until we look.” Namir says, a little flatly. “We were waiting for you so that we could look for answers.”

She nods, looking up at Namir through tears. Wiping them away, once again she steels herself against the onslaught of emotions and feelings that have dragged her along today. Never before has she known mental exhaustion like this.

Something deep and ancient and mourning inside Camille tells her it’s going to get a lot more tiring.


	2. Things I Can't Change

Sleep only came to Camille in small bouts, and when she wakes she doesn’t feel rested at all. Unable to remember if she dreamt at all, she’s wracked with an unsettling sensation of dread over where she is.

The night — or was it day? — prior, before attempting to submit to sleep, she walked from the mouth of the cul-de-sac to the end of the street with Laika in tow, a quiet companion.

“You should see it for yourself.” they had said, sadly.

_ As she walks, her steps seem heavier and heavier. Her gait slows to a shuffle, and it feels as though she’s been walking for days. Years? She wants to lay down and nap in a snowdrift. Laika seems sluggish too, when she finally remembers to look at them. _

_ Towards the end of the street, there’s shadowy shapes; dark fog with writhing figures deep in the wispy depths. As she looks on over that fog, she starts to lighten. Yet in gravity’s heavyheavy stead there’s fear, and there’s hatred. She wants to snap and attack, even towards Laika, for bringing her here. The hatred blossoms inside her like a poisonous lotus. _

_ Though she’s now able to move as freely as before, she has to shake her head hard, bringing her hands up to the sides of her head. She can’t hate like this, so blind and hard. What would her siblings say if they could see that written across her face, her countenance? _

_ What would her _ ** _ parents _ ** _ say? _

_ She feels like she swallowed glass. _

_ The moon shines on and on. _

Camille thinks of that strange and terrifying trek down a simple road, and grabs the pillow from behind her head on the couch, covers her face with it. Then she screams.

When she takes the pillow off after a couple moments, mind now empty of fear and anxiety, she notices that she’s not alone in that little room. Mikael sits on one of the wooden chairs, creaky. He has two mugs in his hands and a stiffened posture.

She couldn’t remember what his realm was when they were explaining things to her, but now she can recall. Reticence. Their realms are odd, she thinks, and no one has explained that to her. But she doesn’t have it in her to ask any more questions; at least not yet, while she’s this tired.

Will she ever get any less tired, though?

Mikael speaks, snapping her effectively out of her reverie, “I made you some tea. I think I remember you liking it sweetened to hell and back, but we only have the real cheap kind of tea. No earl grey.”

“That’s weird.” she sits up, and reaches out to take the mug from him. Warmth fills her grip, a sensation she’s grateful for. He’s right, either way. “I don’t know if I can get used to people knowing things about me even though I’ve never met them.”

He grins at that, idly tucking a stray loc behind his ear, “It creeped me out too. Namir, like, told me all about my smoking habits from before. Didn’t handle it well.”

She hums in assent before taking a sip. It’s a perfect cup.

“This is nicer than telling me about my vices.” she says, smiling at Mikael over the rim of the mug, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” he waves a hand, “You had a rough go of it last night, I figure some comfort might be good.”

She nods, taking another sip. Hell, it’s even got honey in it.

“You seem used to this. How long have you been around?” she asks.

“Mmm. Feels like eons. Just been days.” he goes, and the laugh that comes after is bitter; bitter and sharp compared to the softness of his kind gesture towards her, “Probably, I mean. It’s hard even for the settlers to figure, yeah? With the moon like that.”

“Has a lot happened since you’ve been up?”

“… Naw. Not sure which I’d prefer, either — action or none. There’s only so much  _ fun _ you can make when you’re holed up in a fuckin’ bunker.”

Camille can relate to that from the deep, ancient, mourning part of her, as well as the present self. She skews a little more towards action now that she thinks about it; the image of her siblings’ faces appears in her mind yet again, and her grip tightens around the cup.

It’s agony, thinking about them when she doesn’t know where she is or where they are. If they’re safe or not.

She lowers her head, feeling that hollowed-out cold-wind sensation again. It takes the breath right out of her. There’s silence, tight and tenuous between them, like he wants to talk but can’t form the words. Like she’s too stuck in her own feelings and thoughts to be able to speak.

The curtain separating one room from the next parts, and Namir steps in.

“Oh. You’re awake.” he says. She looks him over; he really is pretty, and she remembers he always has been striking looking. The silver of his hair, stark against his dark skin was a constant; his height, skinny-sharp frame and features, too. But now he seems a little harder somehow, like the world they’re stuck in steeled him right up.

“I thought you went into a coma or something. You were out for a while.”

“Nope.” she says; the silence that follows is awkward, but thankfully brief. Mikael speaks up, completely at ease.

“Laika and Caleb are looking for you two, anyway. Called a Power Rangers meeting.” he gestures a bit animatedly with both hands to the room he just walked in from, “So c’mon, I wanna get this over with.”

Camille is not sure she likes him, but she wants to know more about him anyway. She might call him intimidating and cool in the way he speaks and carries himself, were she shaken by other people like that.

But she’s not. She drains her cup and sets it aside on the floor, standing up with Mikael. He stretches as he leads Camille into the next room, “Better be good.”

Everyone’s sitting around the room in the mismatched furniture, or on the floor in Zephyr’s case. He looks content there, at least, sitting next to Gideon in their rickety chair. She feels fond towards the both of them — siblings, always together, no matter what lifetime. Camille knows this immediately, too.

Easing herself down onto the couch beside Hye, she feels herself flush just a bit. Was Hye privy to her memory, when they were so close and intimate? What does Hye remember of them, and do her memories carry the same fond feelings?

Hye offers her a smile, but there’s no flush in her face, no nervous or tense posture.

For this, she’s grateful, yet she also feels a pang of jealousy at it. The rest of these Godshards seem to be used to this, to be navigating the battlefield after a victory gone wrong. They seem to skirt around the swords and skulls, and she’s stumbling like a newborn deer.

When will it get easier … ? It’s only been a day, sure, but Camille feels an aching need to be more like them, to be graceful and practiced.

Before anyone can speak, she feels herself bubble over.

“How can you guys be so nonchalant about this?” she blurts out, voice wavering and then breaking, “It’s like you remember more than I do, and you don’t even seem to care as much as—”

“Hey.” Namir’s voice cuts in sharply, “You think this is easy for me? You think you’re the only one with missing family?”

Then he laughs, a derisive and cold sort of noise, “Fuck, Camille. I hate this as much as you do. I can’t speak for anyone else here, but I haven’t seen anyone jump for joy about dead family yet!”

“They’re not dead.” Gideon’s voice is just as sharp, but lower in tone, more like a broadsword to the arm instead of a rapier between the ribs. They continue, “They’re not, so don’t put ideas in her head. You know firsthand what this place does about that kind of thing.”

“Gideon, don’t  _ go _ there.” he warns, and if looks could kill, Gideon would never reincarnate again.

“You know you have to stay on your toes in a place like this. Especially if we’re heading out.”

“Gideon. Namir.  _ Enough _ . The last thing we need is in-fighting.” Zephyr says, reaching up to grab their hand. They huff and sit back in their chair, taking their hand from Zephyr’s grip to cross their arms over their chest. 

Namir breathes in deep; after a couple moments, he takes out a soft pack and lights a smoke.

Caleb, next to Laika, seems to be both quiet and just taking things in. Camille feels her own blood begin to boil again; he’s pretty passive, for such a leader-type. She breathes just as Namir had — deep in and deep out. Once, twice, thrice.

“If we’re all calm now, I’d like to begin.”

“ _ Please _ .” Mikael groans, passing a hand over his face. “The bad vibes are just gettin’ worse with y’all fighting like that.”

“Caleb.” Laika clears their throat, a welcome invitation to get him to finally speak.

“All right.” he bows his head a little, “The fact of the matter is that we need answers as much as we need action, and you all are better equipped than the rest of us to find both. The priority should be finding … Demyan, as he’s clearly the key to all this.

“There are settlements dotted all around the country, as there always have been when the Ink takes over. You’ll find more Scribes in those settlements, and therefore you should find more answers.”

“So … If that’s the case, what are we waiting for?” Camille asks, quietly, “And how exactly are we better equipped?”

“We were waiting for you, Camille.” Caleb turns to her.

Laika speaks up then themselves, “ _ When Grief rises, so do the others in consciousness and power _ . … Or … that’s how I remember talking about it ages ago, anyway.”

Mikael snorts.

“I’m like … I’m the leader?”

  
Great.

“You were the first, is all, so you get special powers. But if you’d like to lead this merry band of misfits, y’know … Feel free to herd those cats.” Laika says cheerfully.

“Okay, okay, can you explain the power thing?”

“Since you’re all together now you should feel your powers waken up. Like a leg that fell asleep. Pins an’ needles. But …” they pause, mouth twisting down a little, “They’ve never been … The strongest. It’s stuff like healing and memory sharing and the powers that  _ would _ be useful in a fight are unreliable and unwieldy.

“Or that’s how I remember it. Might be different this time.”

They make a show of crossing their fingers, in a hopeful gesture. Camille appreciates their attempts to lighten the mood, at least, but it works only a little. She shifts some, looks to Hye. She’s been silent and near-still this whole time; Camille wonders what’s going on in her head.

“What kinda stuff are we dealing with exactly?” Namir asks.

“Your powers, you mean? I don’t know.” Laika shrugs, “Not this time around. Normally I’m the person in charge of that, but there’s a big blank here.”

“Oh, cool. We get to figure this Sailor Moon bullshit ourselves.”

“Seems to be the case. I’ll wrack my brain for something, but until you figure it out enough, you’re gonna have to stick around here.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” Caleb says, “You’ll die a horrible death out there, at  _ best _ , if you don’t figure them out at least a little.”

“Right. Don’t know where to begin at all.” Mikael groans again and leans back in his chair, “ _ This is fine _ .”

“Gonna have to be.” Hye says quietly, “What else can we do?”

Camille wants to sleep for a hundred years. Or maybe she wants to get out there to look, or she wants this to never have happened at all. A normal life for her and James, Artina, and Ophelia is all she could have wanted even before the grey of the sky came about.

It’s all so much — too much for her to bear. She wraps her arms around herself, feelings welling up and brimming over.

But with a deep breath in and the closing of her eyes … The boil of emotions slows to stillness.

  
_ Soldier on _ , she tells herself,  _ it’s all you can do now _ .


	3. Speed That Day On Its Way

Impatience and tension stretches over the whole house and its bunker like a spider’s web, taut. One movement from anyone and the others are aware — there’s no privacy, really. So when it comes time to “train” ( or so Laika puts in, grinning wide and wry ) there’s a bit of an audience.

In the backyard, with the moon shining like a threat overhead, Camille feels both stupid and lost all at once. Confused. Yet more impatience.

“So …” Mikael goes to break the silence, “My thinking is, like, maybe fighting and bad situations would bring out that kinda power in us?”

“What, like we gotta  _ spar _ in order to learn how to throw fireballs?” Namir sighs. “Awesome.”

“It’s more likely than anything else.” Hyacinth says. “We’re not going to learn how to throw fireballs just by sitting around and wishing for it.”

“All right. Fine.” Namir trudges over to Laika, and then moves quickly — taking their bowie knife out of its holster and gripping it hard, “If I kill one of you, you’ll just come back. Right?”

“I don’t think so.” Camille says nervously, not sure how she feels with a volatile man holding a knife. That’s just a surface feeling, however; the rest of her is at war with that top-feeling, like she knows in the pit of her he would never hurt a comrade.

Yet still, he moves at the nearest — Zephyr. Zephyr is quick and apparently experienced; when Namir makes to stab at him with the knife, he deflects the blow and twists Namir’s arm behind his back.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, “Let up, let up. I wasn’t serious.”

“Then  _ get _ serious. You’re not gonna land a hit if you’re all telegraphed like that, not on me.” Zephyr says lowly, and Camille wonders just what this guy’s story is. She says nothing. The crowd, however, whistles and even applauds a bit.

“Whew. Maybe Zeph can lead for now.” Laika says, “Break into pairs and see how you do. I’d like my knife back, though.”

Zephyr lets Namir’s arm go; he moves away enough to rub at his shoulder, then hands the weapon back to Laika.

“And — hey, Rage and Diligence. Split up for once.” Laika says, before they turn and go to sit on the ground a couple yards away. Gideon looks annoyed, but then turns to face Namir.

“C’mon, skinny boy. Get me mad.”

Camille pays no more attention to them when Zephyr approaches her. His smile is small, but warm, as though that display of skill and daring didn’t just happen. She looks up at him, offering another smile in return.

“You mind pairing up? At the very least I can teach you some self-defense.” his tone turns a bit sheepish, “Even if I can’t teach you how to throw fireballs.”

She giggles a little despite herself, “Sure. Let’s see what we can do.”

-

So they go about it for what feels like hours; but time is strange here. So who knows how long it’s really been? Who knows if the watches are reliable? Camille quite simply drops down onto the soft grass out of exhaustion, though Zephyr still seems ready to go, covered in sweat or not.

He reaches a hand down, and when she takes it to stand to full mast, the others seem just as tired and worn. Namir and Gideon support each other, arms around waists and shoulders, but they don’t seem particularly happy about it.

Hyacinth and Mikael have huge grins on their faces, clearly laughing at something private.

Hardly productive.

_ Camille had asked Zephyr what exactly his background was, to teach him to fight like that. His laughter was rich at the question. _

_ “Paranoia leads you to weird shit.” he said, as though the sentiment isn’t worrying at best, “Y’know, when you’re holed up in your apartment and unable to leave. Learning self defense does wonders for feeling like people are going to take you … Take you away.” _

_ His voice turned down in volume considerably at the last bit of his statement, and she wanted to ask, but it also seemed like a dangerous question. She swallowed it down like bile, where it sat uncomfortably in her gut … _

They’re scattered about the house and bunker, then, taking some time to reflect or smoke or avoid the prospect of having to learn this on their own entirely. Camille, however, thinks about her family. She can’t quite recall the faces of her parents, but she does see clearly the smiles of her siblings, bright like beacons.

She imagines them there, sleeping-but-not, consumed by Ink. Their futures tenuous, when they should be so filled with promise. Will they be melted away, or  _ eaten _ , or —

Feeling like she’s about to throw up, she rushes towards the nearest trashcan and gags. Zephyr, having just parted the curtain, looks her over and frowns.

“Need some water?” he asks.

“Yeah,”

“Hold on.”

He leaves to go grab some, and in his absence she finds that her gagging is unproductive, just a strong need that will never be slaked.

Not until she finds them all.

Zephyr comes back with a bottle, and she takes it with thanks. Half the bottle is drunk up in one go, and she caps the thing with a heavy breath. An understanding look — crossed with concern — is written all across Zephyr’s face, his countenance.

He doesn’t ask.

“Why don’t you sit with me.” he suggests, pointing to the chairs behind them, “You can tell me about ‘em or we can talk about something else.”

She blinks at him, frozen.

“How’d you know what I was thinking about?”

He shifts his weight over one hip, looking up at the ceiling, “I have a little sister, too. Littler than Gideon. She’s my life as much as Gids is.

“Her name is Nina.” he says.

That’s curious, too. Camille isn’t sure what she wants to do, but she takes the seat anyway; does she avoid the thought of them? Does she indulge, at the risk of hurting herself even more?

After some silence, seated there next to Zephyr, she speaks up.

“They’re good kids.” she says, “Artina called me Milly, but Oph and James called me Mimi. They were …  _ Are _ ,”

She says the last word with finality, eyes screwing shut, “They’re my life too. Even if I can’t remember everything about ‘em.”

“What do you remember?” he asks, “It was painful remembering Neens too. I …” there’s something there in the back of his throat he won’t speak, so he shakes his head, “ _ Yeah _ . It’s a lot.”

“I remember James was into art. I took him to a museum once and he was hooked, said he wanted to paint too.

“So … He … He went through sketchbooks like it was nothing. Watercolors and pastels and chalk. I think he wanted to try spraypaint but, y’know, he’s young.” she laughs lightly, “Ophelia was just really clingy. Cuddly. She always wanted my attention. Really smart, too. One time she used the word ‘distraught’ and I had to laugh — she was five at the time, you know?”

Zephyr laughs too, “They sound like good kids. What about Artina?”

“She’s the smallest. She’s the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet.” Camille takes a sip of the water, swallows down the tears for at least a moment, “She’d take out things I cooked or baked for the neighborhood kids. She just …”

Here she breaks down into tears, holding one hand over her eyes, “She just wanted to be nice to everyone.”

“We’ll find ‘em.” Zephyr says quietly, and maybe it’s platitudinous, but it’s welcome all the same. From him, it feels genuine. Strong and steeled. “We’ll figure it out.”

Her sobs wrack her for moments that feel much longer than they are. 

She takes a drink of water again, polishing off the bottle. Feeling foggy and tired, Camille sits back in her chair. Breathes in, then out. Her eyes slip shut.

“Maybe you should sleep.” he says, sitting back to stretch. “You seem exhausted.”

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to get back to it.” she sniffs, smiles a little. “Sun won’t rise on its own again.”

She wants to say,  _ we won’t find our families just sitting here, either _ . But the statement hangs between them unspoken. He grins, nods.

“Heh. Yeah. Let’s go.”


	4. All That I Have Left

While they fight, Camille finds it’s not  _ all _ useless.

Even if their supposed powers elude them —  _ all _ of them, when they come out to spar as well — Camille is still learning enough about self-defense. Her reflexes are pretty quick, or so Zephyr and Laika have told her. She chalks it up to having three younger siblings she raised pretty much solo.

“Maybe we should switch it up a bit.” Laika announces, on their fourth sparring session, “But again, Gideon and Zephyr—”

“Yeah, yeah, keep separate.” Gideon goes, already walking towards Hyacinth. Zephyr smiles warmly at Camille, making to walk away.

“You’ve learned a lot, so keep going.” he says, shooting a thumbs up. She giggles again, looking to see Namir approach her. He stretches his arms overhead, exposing his skinny hips underneath his shirt.

He really is pretty.

He just needs to work on that mean mug of his.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Zephyr teach you much yet?” he sighs out his question.

“I learned some.” Camille says; her voice drops a little, then, “I could probably take you.”

“Just don’t snap my arm like the big guy did.” he jabs his thumb in Zephyr’s direction. Namir might be taller than Zephyr, but the latter dwarfs the former in terms of body mass. He’s built much broader than Namir, who is pretty skinny in comparison.

“I’ll try to take it easy on you.”

“Come on, then.”

-

They end up fighting themselves into exhaustion, pointedly not talking about anything other than the task at hand, although Namir’s snap at her still looms over the both of them. Does he think the air is clear now? Does she? At what point should they talk about it, what should they say — if they’ll say anything at all?

She lays on the ground, chest heaving with each breath. Namir lays beside her, hands resting on his abdomen. He seems more fit than she is, as his breaths don’t come nearly as ragged and deep. Still, they worked up a sweat.

There’s voices floating from the other pairs, from their audience. Laika doesn’t approach them yet, and Camille can’t be assed to look to see why that is. Her breathing slowly evens itself out, and Namir turns to face her.

“Hey, do you remember anything about me?”

“No.” she says, “I don’t think so.”

“Mmm.” 

“Why?”

“I’m thinking about your sibs. We were close.”

She rolls over to face him, immediately jolted into shock, “What do you remember?”

“Sometimes … You’d have me over to help with the kids.” he says, voice just a little tight, “When you were working too many hours or you were just too tired.

“I’d sleep on the couch and get ‘em ready for school. Let you sleep in.” he continues, and so his voice eases up as he remembers each of them, “James was my lil man. He’d — wait, is this too much? You look like you’re having a stroke.”

Camille covers her mouth but speaks through her fingers, as though the digits will filter out the shakiness of her voice, “No, keep going.”

He pauses, but looks back up at the sky; it’s weird, how it doesn’t seem to horrify him like it does her. Or maybe it does, and he’s just good at hiding it. She can’t tell.

“I was the one who taught him to ride a bike.” he laughs lowly, “But you were the one to patch him up when he fell off and scraped his palms and knees.”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she sniffs, tears leaking messily down her face and into the grass below.

“Tell me … Tell me about the girls.” she whispers.

“Ophelia, she … she’d put on concerts in the living room for us. She liked Lizzo as much as she liked The Hush Sound. Bad at make-up, good at stage presence.”

She laughs despite herself, and that gets a grin out of him.

“Artina … Clumsy kid.” he goes, “But so sweet. She … She hit her head once, falling off a chair—”

Camille sucks in a deep breath and doesn’t let it out. She remembers that now that he’s spoken it; it all comes back to her in a rush …

_ Artina, falling off the spinning chair, hitting her head on the edge of the table. The blood, the unconscious child in her arms. Tearfully — hysterically — calling 911. By the time the EMTs arrived, she was awake and just a bit woozy, wobbling where she sat. _

_ “Milly,” she had asked, “Why did they put a bandaid on my finger? I didn’t fall on my finger …” _

She’s laughing and she’s crying, when she comes to. Evidently so loudly that the rest of them have begun to surround her, concern across their postures and voices—

“—Camille, what’s—”

“God, I—” she reaches her hand up towards the sky, “—I miss them … so much.”

She feels positively woozy herself on that memory; it occurs to her that this must have been how Artina felt when she hit her head. How strange, the memory affecting her like this. There’s not much to be done, and nor does she think about it the pain. The images of her siblings — there with Namir, riding bikes, singing loudly, sitting with bandaids all over — is enough to make her burst into tears and laughter all over again.

“What happened?”

“I just started telling her what I remembered about her sibs. Told her about her youngest hitting her head and then she …” Namir lets the sentence run off a cliff.

“I think … I think that’s one of her abilities.” Laika says, that tone tentative, as though they’re remembering something old and storied themself.

“What, scaring the fuck out of us?” Mikael goes, though his voice holds no derision — rather, there’s trembling concern and humor in its stead. Attempting to lighten a strange mood.

“No, I mean … She immerses herself so deep in memories that she …” Laika searches for the words, “They  _ affect _ her, y’know? The good  _ and _ the bad.”

“Sounds whack. What good does that even do against—”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Camille cuts in. She doesn’t want to hear it; even soft voices feel like too much to her.

Camille sits up and manages to get to her knees and then to her feet, supportive hands coming out to help her.

“I just need … Need to sit somewhere that isn’t grass.” she mumbles, making her way towards the basement door, in a daze. Zephyr is quick to rush to her side, opening the door and then guiding her down the rickety steps.

“I’ll get you some water,” he offers, sounding incredibly frazzled himself, “D’you need anything else?”

“Blanket.”

“Got it.”

She’s seated on the couch, then, and Zephyr makes to go get what she needs. Namir slinks into the room, sitting on the chair adjacent.

“You gonna be good?” he asks lightly, as though any other words might make either one of them implode. An apology would feel strange in that short tone of his, and anything else from Camille would feel just as jumbled.

There’s hushed, hurried murmuring outside of the curtain, but Zephyr quickly comes in to hand Camille a bottle and spread a blanket out around her shoulders.

“You mind if … I sit here with you? This sort of thing makes me …” he gesticulates; Camille just nods.

“Go ahead.”

So he sits next to her, and once again silence falls over them. This time it’s fuzzy and thick, strange and odd in the way it settles in one’s bones.

Camille wonders briefly when it’s going to get less awkward and weird … She wants them to be friendly, like they used to be.

She falls asleep with her head on Zephyr’s shoulder.

He doesn’t move the whole night. She smiles through her dreams, just as fuzzy, thick, and strange all about her. Sunshine and song lift her from the bad brainspace into something like morning.


	5. If You're Listening

Namir has one hand shading his eyes, the other holding a cigarette; it’s been burning for a couple moments now without a drag, threatening to die if he doesn’t move. The sky above should be starred, clouds casting shade over the ground as they move past the moon. Yet there’s no hiding from that moon, no stars to remind them they’re on Earth at all.

It gets to be a lot when one looks up a little too long, just as when one goes out of the cul-de-sac in search of elsewhere. He was the first of the Shards to learn this, wasn’t he—

He hears someone approach but doesn’t take his hand down, even when they speak.

“What’s up, man?” 

It’s Mikael.

After a moment, he puts his hand down, drags off the smoke. Mikael’s countenance bears only a little concern; Namir can’t tell what he’s thinking. It’s not that he’s especially strange, it’s just that his easy-going nature seems a stark contrast to how high-strung the others can be.

Mikael hasn’t really gone through it yet, it seems.

Namir doesn’t dwell on this, instead offering the cigarette filter first to Mikael.

“Just trying to figure out the superpower bullshit.”

Mikael takes the smoke, sits beside him on that bench in the backyard.

“Doesn’t feel real, right?” he goes, “Like we’re stuck in some weird-ass dream.”

“Yeah.”

Mikael offers the smoke back, exhaling through his nose. Namir takes it and drags off of it again. Silences shared with Mikael have never once been awkward; when they’re alone, at least. They’ve built up something close to a rapport, through a casual communion of cigarettes — and once, liquor that the other settlers had hoarded.

“Camille being awake and around helps jog the memory some.” Mikael notes, “Remembered something kinda dope when I was out front with Laika.”

“Yeah?” Namir finds genuine interest in that, but he can’t help his disinterested tone, sounding more like he’s a little inconvenienced. Mikael doesn’t seem to be bothered, instead continuing as he leans back on the bench.

“Yeah. I remembered the last incarnation, or at least that’s what it felt like.” he toys with a loc, “In that weird way you just sorta know shit, y’know.

“It was just you and me outside like this, but after some kinda gig at Zephyr’s. Me, you, and the sibs had a house together and we had bands come by sometimes.” he says, “Think we were high or something ‘cause we just kept geekin’.”

“Sounds about right.”

The statement sneaks out of his mouth as the memory clicks in his own mind; it’s true in the ancient part of him, as though Mikael was just telling him something about himself he had learned the other day. His height or his favorite color.

“It was … peaceful.” he had to search for that word, like he forgot momentarily that peace was even a thing one could attain, in stark contrast to the tension that’s been blanketing them warm and true since they woke up.

Namir stubbornly doesn’t let that thought take hold — for now, at least.

“Imagine that.” he snorts, and after a beat he tacks on, “Sounds like something we could all use.”

Mikael does not say they’ll get there again — because how could he know? How could they win? He doesn’t say anything else, either, and it’s from the uncharacteristic silence that he screws his eyes shut tight.

“Ow,  _ fuck _ .” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You all right, man?”

“Headache. Real sudden.” he says tightly, “‘Cause what  _ else  _ can go wrong here?”

Namir doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, for a couple moments. 

“Should I get Laika?”

“Naw.” he inhales sharply, plainly in quite a bit of pain, “I’ll get ‘em.”

“… All right.” Namir says awkwardly, “But I’ll come with you, I don’t like how sudden that was.”

Mikael says nothing, only standing and stumbling a little; Namir is quick to stand up himself after snuffing the smoke, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“C’mon, I got you.”

Together they move down the rickety stairs and into the bunker. Several pairs of eyes glance up at the pair, and someone speaks from the corner.

“What’s wrong now?”

It’s a tired tone and a shock-concerned one all at once; what a feat, to be able to sound absolutely exhausted and alert all at once.

“Mickey needs to lie down or something. Where’s Caleb?”

“Yo, Mickey?” Mikael asks through the pain with a short laugh; but then his voice tightens up out of pain again, “ _ Ow _ . Didn’t know we were on a nickname basis.”

Truthfully, the nickname snuck into his throat and bubbled out of his mouth like boiling water, like something ancient rose up and heated it right out of him; he swears at himself internally at the show of familiarity, now embarrassed.

“Shut up. I’m gonna lie you down and find Caleb.”

So he moves to the closest room; Camille and Zephyr share a quiet conversation, until they look up and see the pair.

“What happened?”

“Who knows? More Shard bullshit.” Mikael groans as Namir sits him down on the free couch; he lies back instead of down, “Sick of this already.”

Namir grimaces, “I’ll be back.”

And then he goes off in search of Caleb. He very pointedly doesn’t think about anything in his search except to try to remember their glorious leader’s usual whereabouts.

He heads to the front yard, where he’s standing next to Laika.

“Hey, something’s happening with Mi … Mikael.” he goes, grateful that he managed to dislodge the nickname from his mouth, “He’s got a headache and he’s pretty wobbly. He just remembered something so it’s probably that kind of bullshit again.”

“Take us to him,” Caleb says immediately, and the trio walks down through the home into the basement, into the room where Mikael is. Camille and Zephyr haven’t moved, but Mikael seems to have disappeared.

“Where’d he go?” Namir asks, brow furrowed, mind spinning with wonder like a merry-go-round.

Then he blinks, and Mikael is there again; it’s as though he was there the whole time, but Namir had somehow overlooked him. Caleb and Laika startle just like Namir does.

“What the  _ fuck _ —”

“I don’t know either,” Mikael says, “I think it’s one of my … My powers, not anything bad. Doesn’t feel bad.”

Caleb steps forward a little, “Can you control it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Show me again.” he says, intense and intent like he says everything else. So Mikael blinks out of view entirely again, and the suddenness of it is surprising enough that they all look around once more, as though he’s hiding on the ceiling.

“Fuck. I don’t know if I like that.” Zephyr mumbles, passes a hand over his face. He visibly shudders.

Mikael blinks back in again, and there’s a palpable feeling of relief over the room. In his absence, he left only unease and questions. Now that he’s back, the questions pile up higher and higher.

Caleb speaks first, “Where do you go when you blink out?”

“Still here, just … Invisible, I guess.” he sits forward, then grins, “Headache’s gone, though.”

“Of course.” Namir huffs, “At least you can control yours.”

“I wonder … I wonder what’ll be different between us and what’s gonna be the same.” Camille says thoughtfully, and Namir notices she’s doing a better job at seeming calm now, compared to her usually shaken self. At least, that’s how she’s been since waking up. 

Namir can recall that, once upon a time, she was a woman of composure and grace.

“Can you remember anything yet, Laika?” Caleb asks; Laika is evidently deep in thought, eyes turned unseeing towards the floor. They turn stones over and over in their mind, and Namir waves a hand in front of their field of vision; the silences get to him. 

They swipe at his hand, hiss, “Stop, I’m trying to remember.”

He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I think that there’s more differences than similarities. At least, that’s what I feel, you know? They all have something to do with your … Your,” they gesture, searching for the words; with the way they’re talking — quickly and a little stumbly — Namir can tell their mind is moving a million miles an hour, far too fast for their mouth and hands to keep up, “Y’know, your  _ realms _ . Grief and Reticence and all.

“So I feel like that’s how you get access to ‘em. Camille was remembering her sibs when she did her thing, not sure what Mikael was going through when … When he blinked out.” they turn to him expectantly; he rubs at his chin.

“I … Hm. I think we were talking about some heavy shit.” he says, “Don’t remember what, but I do remember I couldn’t say anything ‘cause it was real weird to talk about.”

“That’s sort of like reticence.” Caleb cuts in smoothly, “Not conscious, but forced. Perhaps it has to do with being sort of backed into a corner, in a way?    
  
“Camille was flooded with her grief, I’m sure, and it seems as though Mikael couldn’t say anything when the situation called for it.”

Namir furrows his brows, “How the hell do you access something like that with Ambivalence? Or Diligence, or Veils?”

He tacks on the last two, a touch frustrated and certainly bewildered at the thought. Does the Ink expect him to emotionally vacillate his way into throwing fireballs at them … ?

Laika shrugs, “Dunno about those ones. I’ll think on it; you guys should rest up a bit.”

“… All right.” he says it a beat late; Laika parts from them without further ceremony, and Caleb — ever the sage — turns to Namir.

“You’ll learn. You always do.” there’s a small smile there, and Namir isn’t sure he feels reassured.

All he can do is nod and look away.

Learning is all that can be done for now; the action has to wait, much to his growing frustration.

He ends up smoking half a pack before sleep takes him once more.


	6. Terminal Yell

They’re all in a room together, settled in silence, for what feels like the first time in eons.

Before it was outside, training; even just an hour before they were attempting to train themselves into their powers, but there was nothing doing. It felt typical, that silence from that end of themselves; if there was going to be any learning of their powers at all, it’d be harder to come across than that, surely. Camille and Mikael had practiced with their own, but there wasn’t much luck with unlocking the others’.

The former of the pair had an ability far more unwieldy than the latter, but during the latest session she was able to recall something that made her feel nothing but joy. It lifted her spirits, and even in the strange silence they bask in, she smiles over the rim of her cup. The steam sinks into her, warm tea nourishing a small part of her.

She feels the memory of her siblings lifting her; they were at a cheap carnival sort of deal, something that could be put up and taken down in a single day. The rides were rickety and just a little scary in that merit, but the food was greasy and good and the smiles about her siblings lifted her up as high as she could go.

“You look happy.” Gideon notes, jerking their head upwards at Camille, “Are you still on a high, or something?”

“Hey, it’s sort of rare here, isn’t it?” Zephyr asks.

“That’s exactly why I’m asking.” they reply, sounding a little terse. They seem to match Namir in their typically brusque tone.

“Calm down, calm down.” he says gently, waving a hand. They mess up his already disheveled hair.

Camille’s smile grows wider at the display, at Gideon’s begrudging grin when Zephyr pushes his hand into their face ( “I said  _ calm _ .” ). 

“Yeah, feels like it. It feels good, so I’m not really complaining.” she says quietly, though she shrinks a little in her seat. It’s as though making herself smaller will keep the happy, warm feelings inside her just a little tighter.

From where she perches on the end of the couch, Hyacinth shifts and pipes up in her flutey voice, “So I was thinking … Maybe we can learn more about one another … I think it’d be good for us.”

“How do you propose we do this?” Gideon goes, a little flat for Hye’s liking.

“Story time? I’d like to hear about you guys, at least.” Hye doesn’t balk at Gideon’s clipped tone, either way, instead pushing forward. They shrug.

  
“Could be all right.” they go, “Since you suggested it, you should start.”

“Mmm … Maybe not.” she says, looking down at her own cup, “Unless you ask me something specific, I’m not sure what I can share. My life was … Was pretty boring.”

Zephyr’s eyes narrow and look over her form. She’s the picture of poise and ease, smiling a little with the admission of an uneventful life, but he knows this immediately to be a lie. He doesn’t call her out, however.

“Okay, then, tell us about …” he searches a little; he goes to call out something she might not be so guilty of, but it’s something that a deep part of him feels compelled to ask about, “Your first fist fight.”

“If you’ve actually been in one, I’ll be surprised.” Gideon snorts; is the question out of disbelief against her calm and quiet nature, or is it something else … ?

Hyacinth laughs quietly, “I haven’t. The closest I’ve ever gotten would be a good story, though.”

She crosses one leg over the other, “It was … Mmm … I think I was fifteen. I had just moved and someone at my new school heard my last name. Ahn.

“So my brother, Yarrow, used to go to that school himself when he was younger. He’s ten years older, so he and I were never close. Anyway, I guess his reputation as a party boy really turned wild, because I was being pestered left and right about my  _ cool  _ and  _ famous _ brother.”

“Yeah, I feel that.” Gideon says, nudging Zephyr in the ribs.

“Not a good feeling, in my case. I got pretty … heated when people kept calling him a legend.” she laughs lightly, but then her smile drops a little. Zephyr knows that look; that just-a-beat-too-long silence. It says everything; she’s remembering that the story might not be so good to tell. She changed her mind, now that she’s into it deep enough.

She waves a hand, continues, “So I got … I got into it with this girl. She said she wanted to meet him and I ended up, um. Yelling a bit. I got sent home for the day.”

Her laugh comes sheepish then.

“See? My life’s been … b-boring,” as the last word quivers out of her throat, she holds a hand up to her mouth, suddenly looking shaken and pale. “I’m sorry. Sorry.”

“What for? What’s wrong?” Camille asks, sitting forward as sudden as Hyacinth’s ails.

“I’m gonna throw up—” she’s standing, bolting for the nearest trash can. Just outside the room, she retches and throws up into the bin. Concern fills Zephyr, and he’s moving out and into the room she’s in, hand hovering just a little above her back.

She shakes, holding her arms around her middle, as though she’s hugging herself. Another retch, but nothing comes up. After a couple moments, filled with shaking breaths, she rights herself and steadies her footing with a hand on Zephyr’s arm.

“I-I’m okay, I’ll be okay.”

“Why did you get sick … ? More Shard nonsense?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know, I just … Felt ill.” she sniffs, heading across the room. She rinses out her mouth, takes a couple drinks from the bottle. Repeating herself, she offers Zephyr a smile, “I’ll be okay.”

He’s not convinced.

He smiles back anyway, because what place does he have calling her out on that? He puts out a hand to pat her on the shoulder.

But the hand passes right through her.

“Wh-what the—” he stammers, and brings his hand back up the path it took; it passes through her easily. Hyacinth is just as startled, backing away from him; she looks at her hands. She looks solid, corporeal — but moving her hand over one of the central beams in the room confirms the ability.

“Can you control it … ?”

“I hope so,” she laughs weakly, “Let me concentrate.”

He stays quiet, though he wants to ask and ask.

After a couple moments — closed eyes, shaking willed right out of her — she passes a hand over her face. Solid again, she sighs audibly in relief.

“Okay … I think,” she murmurs, “I think I got it.”

Zephyr inhales and exhales in lieu of saying anything, nodding once.

“All right.” he says, finally, feeling a strange sense of lucidity about the whole thing, as though the reality of their situation is hitting him. Him, the human, not the Godshard. Zephyr. He points towards the other room, “Think we should get back in there? They’re probably worried.”

“Yes, I think so.” she murmurs, her voice suddenly small. He frowns, but leads the way anyway.

“The hell was that?”

“I got sick and then turned into a ghost.” she says simply, though she sighs all heavy when she takes her seat again, as though the weight of the world is on her shoulders alone.

“… Pardon?” Gideon goes.

“I turned into a ghost. Zephyr’s hand passed right through me, like this.”

When she puts her hand through her own chest, the other Shards recoil. It seems as though, at this rate, it’ll take a long time until they get used to the shock of their odd powers.

“It’s good you can control it …” Camille says gently, “It looks useful.”

“What  _ I’m _ wondering is how she unlocked that ghost noise in the first place.” Namir goes, leans forward, “You were just talking about a regular screaming match, right?”

“I mean. Yeah.” she says, and again that just-a-beat-too-long silence fills the room once more, “But I don’t want to go there again.”

“… Okay.” he replies, “I guess it doesn’t matter. You got it, you can control it, it’s fine.”

Mikael interjects, “I think it actually might be worth examining how, Hyacinth. It could tell you how to unlock more, or what we can do to move forward.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t go there again.” her voice comes firm, and her gaze locked on Mikael’s seems to burn a little with pleading and warning all at once. “I won’t. We’ll find another way.”

The silence that lays over them all is, once again, strange, terse, tense, awkward,  _ unwanted _ . Hyacinth stubbornly, anxiously worries her fingers into the fabric of her shirt, keeping her head and gaze down both.

Mikael ends up inviting Namir out for a smoke, and Zephyr follows them after a moment, muttering something lowly about old, bad habits. Gideon watches after him as he leaves, and then rocks backwards in their own seat.

“I think I need to sleep, but I don’t want to.” they murmur, and still their voice gets softer, “I keep feeling like I’m gonna miss something.”

“I can wake you if something happens.” Camille offers. “I don’t feel very tired myself.”

They consider, biting a little at their lower lip. Camille notices their eyes all heavy-lidded, a slackening of their posture, their countenance. They really do look tired; for once, they don’t wear that exhaustion over them and carry it as well as they might have before.

It’s wearing on them, all of them, and they haven’t even truly begun yet.

They find sleep quicker at Camille’s urging than they had the last few times they tried to sleep. The last thing they think, before they finally drift off, is that they’re thankful for the rest.

*

“Where’s Zephyr?” comes Gideon’s voice, heavy with sleep. They didn’t dream, and for this they’re thankful; typically their dreams are strange at best.

It was the first thing that rolled out of their throat upon sitting up on the couch, the first thing that occurred to them. Namir is the only other person in the room, seated on a chair with one leg slung over the arm of it. It looks uncomfortable, but he seems to be the picture of ease.

“Outside.” he says, not looking up from his book for a moment; but then he does, glancing over at Gideon, “He got up a couple hours ago to keep  _ training _ , he’s probably still at it.”

Gideon rubs the sleep out of their eyes, “Thanks. He’ll be out there all day unless I go kick his ass to rest.”

“Diligence is diligence, I guess.” he turns back to his book, leaving that at that.

After willing themself awake some more, after brushing their teeth and changing their clothes, they move out and into the backyard.

They almost expect sunlight to greet them, yawning and stretching out behind some clouds. Yet all there is on the strange backdrop of grey is that ring of moon, the cartoonish clouds. It’s unsettling, to be bathed in that moonlight. What’s it doing to them … ? What’s it doing to the land, the animals? They haven’t seen much beyond the boundary of the cul-de-sac.

Namir proved on his first night awake that what lies past those boundaries is nothing to mess with unprepared.

Gideon shakes their head to dislodge the thoughts; Zephyr is out there with Mikael, going through the motions of mock-battle. Camille sits on the ground a little ways away, seated next to Hye. The latter pair looks utterly exhausted as Gideon draws closer. They stay by them, watching Zephyr flip Mikael around and onto his back on the ground.

“Uuuugh,” Mikael groans, “At least give me a chance, tough guy.”

“I am!” he goes, helping Mikael up, turning to glance at Gideon, “Hey Gids. Sleep well?”

They snort, a bit derisive, “Yeah, for once. How long have you been at this?”

“Couple hours?” Zephyr looks at Mikael, who nods and dusts himself off, “Yeah. Not sure how long exactly, but I think I’m wearing these guys out.”

He punctuates the latter statement with a slight laugh, a little sheepish. Camille just nods, holding up a hand.

“He’s really going hard at this.”

“Is it because of your realm or something?” Mikael asks, “Like, you gotta live up to your title as Diligence?”

“I mean … I guess.” he rubs at the scruff on his chin, “But I …”

He looks to Gideon, then down at his feet, “I have people to find and protect. I won’t get anywhere by just wishing for my … My powers, so I might as well try to figure them out.”

“If that ain’t the purest thing that’s been said since we all woke up.” Mikael takes a seat on the ground next to the girls, groaning a little and rubbing at his elbow, “Gideon, can you clock in and train with Zeph? He’s runnin’ me ragged.”

Zephyr laughs again, “You’re picking it up well, though. Gideon? You down?”

Gideon considers. They’ve learned some from Zephyr over the years in the way of self-defense; it was at his urging, even. They nod all the same.

Zephyr takes them through the motions and never seems tired or worn, not even a little. Sure he sweats and breathes hard the harder they work at it, but he shows no other sign of slowing. Gideon, however, tires out the longer they’re thrown around and flipped.

“Mercy, mercy,” they go, holding up their hands, “You sure this endurance of yours isn’t your ability? I mean damn, Zeph.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” he shrugs, “Maybe I can get Namir out here.”

“Namir’s probably asleep in his chair by now. He looked a little tired when I saw him.” Gideon says gently, and then they move to push Zephyr bodily towards the basement, “C’mon. You’ve been at it all day. Take a rest.”

“Just a little longer, Gids.” he says, and then stops altogether, stiffening up considerably. He glances at Gideon, at the ground, the sky, his hands held out in front of him, all quickly and jerky. He pales a little, looking as though he’s seen a ghost.

“Huh? You okay?” Gideon asks quietly, bending to get a look at his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel shaky all of a sudden,” he murmurs, and unceremoniously falls back against the side of the house to lean against it. “Real bad.”

“Shit. Do you need anything? When’s the last time you ate?”

Mikael, Hye, and Camille come up closer.

“Are you okay? What happened?” Hye asks gently.

“Just shaky.” he holds out a hand to look at it, and indeed he’s trembling considerably. Gideon looks around nervously, not sure if this is a result of his training, or if it’s more Shard nonsense, or if it’s something more eldritch and sinister. Their heart picks up a quicker pace, suddenly nervous with the thoughts that come along with the uncertainty.

Zephyr seems to be calmer than them, even though he’s the one rendered weaker, “Hey, calm—”

It’s then that Laika comes running around the corner of the house from the front yard, and no one has seen them in such a state before — eyes wide, panting, fright in their limbs and posture.

“Guys, I need to get—get Namir,” they say, “They’re—they’re outside, they’re out front, they’re  _ here _ —”

“Who’s here? The Ink?” Mikael speaks but he visibly blanches; he looks how the rest of them feel. Utterly horrified by the prospect of their enemies finding them.

They freeze right up.

Gideon feels worthless for that — something needs to be done  _ now _ , and their legs seem as though they can’t move. They finally take off running towards the front, dread dread dread pulling them down with each step they take. All the others follow; Namir and Laika are quick to join them in the front.

There’s two individuals, standing in the street proper, looking to be the picture of ease.

The taller of the two is solid, sure, strong in her stance. Her face is stony, eyes blacked over and raking over the forms of the Shards. The most noticeable — and horrifying — thing about her is the drooling, dripping mouths dotted along her body. There’s one on her cheek, one at her throat; along her arms and her hands.

They have sharp teeth, gnashing hungrily, needfully, incessantly.

The man next to her has his arms crossed over his chest, looking just a little unimpressed with the show of the shaking Shards in front of them both. Blonde hair, slightly unkempt; one of his eyes is missing, a sizeable hole there where it once was.

Laika, armed with their shotgun, takes aim at the blonde and fires without hesitation.

It rips into his body and he stumbles backwards, but the blast heals back up in moments, a stringy ink-substance patching up the holes. 

“Tch. What a greeting,” he groans, digging his nails into the fabric of his shirt around the healing wound, “How do you know we’re even here to hurt you?”

“We  _ are _ , Scrape. Don’t play coy.”

Scrape sighs out, “You have no tact.”   
  
“Who needs tact? We’re only here to break some heads.”

The pause there lies tense and frightened, tenuous and strange. The woman with all her terrible mouths and her shining eyes lunges forward and grips Gideon by the throat to spin them around and back away.

Indecision and incapability freezes their legs and arms to the spot like burning ice.

“You. Diligence, right?” she points with the other hand to Zephyr, “They’re your sister still?”

“Fuck— _ get off of me _ ,” Gideon snarls, thrashing in her grip.

“They’re my sister, don’t hurt them,” Zephyr goes, caught between pleading and warning like a caged animal. He takes a half-step forward, breathing quick and ragged; the others aren’t in much better shape. Scrape scoffs out a laugh.

“You really are young, aren’t you.” he goes, grin splitting wide on his face.

“I  _ said _ we’re here to break heads.” she says, and her voice rises, “You’re all going to  _ watch _ .”

They grip Gideon’s wrist and push them forward, forcing their arm back and upwards. Their cry is sharp and loud and everyone starts — but most of all Zephyr.

“Don’t hurt them! Please,” he cries out himself, reaching fruitlessly. “Take me instead!”

“The more you talk the worse you’ll make it for them, how about that?” her voice is lofty above them all, cruel and impartial. She bends Gideon’s arm up higher, rending a scream from them, “Fucking disgusting, your take-me-save-them bullshit. You don’t really mean that.”

They’re forced onto their knees hard, and with that, kicked forward at their back to lay them flat on the ground. They gasp and heave, writhing there on the asphalt and no one can help them.

“I can’t watch this,” Zephyr’s voice comes as a groan, a plea, and then a roar, all animal and teeth to everyone’s shock and horror, “I’ll kill you!”

“Ze—”

He’s moving before Camille can finish her sentence, crouching and running and slamming against the woman hard. It takes her down, and when he rears back to punch her, she spits in his face.

“ _ That’s _ what I was waiting for.” Scrape goes, and his hands are quick to move, eye shining — there’s no name for that color, the sense of horror that the sight brings. Threads of the same shade shine on their own, attaching themselves to Zephyr’s limbs.

“You’re not as righteous as you’d hoped.” he continues, and the monster beneath Zephyr cocks back and clocks him hard across the jaw. He can’t move, not with those horrible threads binding him and shooting fear right through him. Scrape then pulls Zephyr up by the threads, and slams him down on the ground; he lands with a gasp. 

“Stay down and lie there. It’s all that you’re good for.”

“G … Gideon …” he groans, and he finds he can’t move to reach for them.

“I’ll kill  _ you _ for that one,”

“Sumi,” Scrape then addresses her, as she’s getting to her feet. There’s a snarl on her face and murder in her eyes, “If you kill him Stolas will take your head.”

“Don’t  _ care _ —”   
  
“Well I  _ do _ . Don’t even start.” he moves his hands again; not to tug at the strings so much as to show Sumi a warning, “We got what we came here for. There’s no need to kill yet.”

The threads fly off of Zephyr just as Sumi screams wordlessly, frustrated, kicking at Zephyr’s ribs in her anger. “Fine. Fine! Let’s go before I get  _ real _ mad.”

Scrape is backing off already, grinning broadly at the Shards and Laika. His eye twinkles like the moon.

“See you later, Shards.” his voice is low and even and it sends a shiver up the spines of those in front of him, those who were too terrified to move. He and Sumi let the creeping, approaching shadow swallow them up. 

It fades away from there, and then they’re gone.

Camille, Hye, and Laika rush immediately over to Zephyr and Gideon; Mikael and Namir hang back a little, as though to not crowd the fallen.

“Zephyr,” Camille addresses him through tears, grasping at his hand. She wants to say he and Gideon will be okay. She wants to say they’ll end the Ink again. She wants to tell him and Gideon that everything will be all right and soon the sun will shine and they’ll all have their families back and they won’t have to hurt and hide anymore.

She can’t tell him any of this.

Grasping his hand just a little tighter, she looks back at Gideon briefly. Hye has their hand in her grasp, and they’re biting their lip, pointedly looking away as silent tears roll down their cheeks. 

“Gi…” he croaks, “Gideon,”

“Zephyr,” they manage, sniffling loudly and wiping at the hot tracks on their face, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was so scared, Gids.” he breaks down, shielding his face with his arm and crying into it, “I … I can’t lose you again, I can’t.”

Gideon takes their hand from Hye’s grasp enough to move closer to Zephyr. Everyone watches them, unable to say much even if they _ weren’t  _ interrupting a moment between two siblings.

“I don’t w-wanna lose you either.” they sniff, and choke on a sob, “We have to fin … finish this.”

“We should get you guys inside …” Laika cuts in gently, offering their hand to Gideon. They take it and are guided up to their feet again, wobbling where they stand. “Do you need help?”

“I should be … fine,” they sniff loudly.

Zephyr manages to get up to his feet with Camille’s help, hunching over some, “I feel like they cracked some of my ribs,”

“Shit. Let’s lay you down inside, then. We’ll take care of you.” Laika moves to Zephyr’s side, steadying him by the arm.

“I, uh.” Mikael starts; he pauses, then shakes his head with his eyes screwed shut, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything. I was scared too.”

“I don’t think any of us could.” Camille says quietly, and starts off behind Zephyr and Gideon and Laika. “But we’re going to have to. Next … Next time.”

The prospect of there being a next time sticks there like a splinter to the finger, deep and painful. Namir inhales deeply, looking over everyone and settling back on the ground They move to the backyard, slowly descending the stairs, single file as though they’re in a funeral procession. Their dirge as they march might be the stark silence of the world as they now know it, the unnatural stillness that sinks into ones bones and curls up there.

Everyone collapses into their seats, then they collapse into themselves. There’s tears to fill up the quiescence, and though no one speaks, they find they don’t need to. 

The fear takes hold, and it takes hold hard.


End file.
